To link to the entire object, paste this link in email, IM or documentTo embed the entire object, paste this HTML in websiteTo link to this page, paste this link in email, IM or documentTo embed this page, paste this HTML in website

Images are available for educational and research purposes and are covered by Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported license. This image may not be reproduced for commercial purposes without the express written consent of Bethel University Digital Library. Contact Bethel University Digital Library at 651-638-6937 or digital-library@bethel.edu.

Physical Dimensions

21.5 x 24.5

Transcript

444 f '4 09040140141.,i
•••!1...40.71i, - ,peeku. v-,1,2•4117t,rt—.' ‘49..
I
4
PASSAGES
1979 Bethel College
All is a procession,
The universe is a procession with measured and beautiful motion.
Walt Whitman
4 4., a
4 "
In passing .. .
On the tails of Welcome Week, the freshman mounts that notorious merry-go-round known as college life. Suddenly he is
bombarded by the novel forces of pressure, professors, all-nighters, roommates, classmates, and activities.
"Passages" attempts to seize chunks of individual students' college experiences, to focus on specific elements of an insane
four-year whirl and make them into small, detailed portraits. Unlike the deceased yearbook, "Passages" sidesteps the old
photographic depiction of School Year '78 - '79, instead uprooting, the literary and artistic side of Bethel and Bethelites.
College life, personal growth, and "passages," hopefully, have been suspended here for in-depth examination. Our thanks to
those who aided in the search for and construction of this material, especially Alvera Mickelsen and Dale Johnson.
Scott A. Barsuhn,
Editor
Shelly Nielsen,
Literary Director
Dyer Davis
The Lifespan of a College Student
Freshmen are babies.
Oh, now don't get historical. I'm not insulting anybody. I
mean well.
As a matter of fact I mean it as a compliment. So try to
shed your hardened presuppositions. Just relax.
Now try to imagine for a moment that this is something
vaguely like literature. In literature, language is sometimes
figurative.
I say then, figuratively mind you, that freshmen are chil-dren.
You see, after four years observing college life from the
inside, I have concocted some idea, fragile though it may
be, that one's development through four years in college is
a miniature parallel of life.
No, really. Think about it for a minute. Let's start with
children. Children are great. They're usually much more
fun than adults.
How often do we see a pack of freshmen laughing long
and loud over the most minor matters? As with children, so
with freshmen.
They come in scared, wide-eyed and silly. They're fun to
watch. They don't know where to go, or when, or how, and
they're not sure why. They don't know a cognate from a
Clarion, an LRC from a BVD, or a convocation from a con-versation.
(It's true. Just watch them in chapel sometime.)
They spend as much time laughing as discussing, as
much time enjoying as analyzing, and as much time play-ing
as working. What's better yet, they can play at their
work.
You see, they know how to enjoy life.
They don't yet know about all the taboos, all the pres-sures,
all the petty frustrations that make the rest of the
world so cynical.
Life is still new to them. They have nothing to be proud
of, nothing to hide. They can laugh at themselves and take
life at face value.
I love children.
They're still observant. They're still creative. They still
appreciate what God has given them.
They still love life.
Some folks say freshmen are a nuisance. But where
would we be without them?
Sophomores are adolescents.
Not that I have anything against sophomores, mind you.
I have great respect for anyone who, in his second colle-giate
year, still has his head above water.
It's just that when a sophomore does pull his head above
the waves he finds that he is still in the dark.
And he can't see how far he has to tread water.
But he thinks he can.
It's rough being a sophomore. I wouldn't go through it
again, not for all the orange juice in Florida. Nor for all the
ski tickets in Aspen. No sir.
Nope.
I've said it before. Being a sophomore is just like being an
adolescent.
Sophomores are the ones who always put down the
freshmen for being freshmen, not unlike the poor white
crackers in the Old South who put down black slaves for
being black slaves.
I'll take the freshmen any day.
Sophomores are the ones who gripe a lot. Why not?
After a year's experience, they should know the meaning of
life, the vital skills necessary to live it meaningfully, and how
the universe in general belongs.
Ha.
A sophomore is the guy who scoffs at Pastor Jim's
sermon just before Pastor Jim walks up behind him.
A sophomore is the girl who whines about her dating life
just as last weekend's date walks up to say hi.
Poor sophomores.
They have so many growing pains, so much to realize.
They think they've been through it all, when, sadly enough,
they're just going through it all.
It can't be easy living day after day with your foot in your
mouth.
The Greek term "sophos" means "wise." On the other
hand, "moros" means "foolish." Thus we have a term
meaning "wise fool." Sounds like a paradox?
Not if you know any sophomores.
David Shelley
Linda Swift
Sandy Horst
I am part of a team which molds Bethel College, one of
forty-six people responsible for the well-being of others.
God called me to give nine months of my life as a resident
assistant.
To be chosen for this position one must possess some
sought-after qualifications:
• a high tolerance for meetings,
• an unfailing ability to follow all rules,
• the skill to make change and count two sheets and one
pillowcase,
• and the perception it takes to detect cigarette smoke,
alcohol fumes, and the vibrations of people dancing in
their rooms.
One must have:
• the creative ability to make 359 eye-catching signs,
• ability to change fuses — daily,
• strength to bodily remove people of the opposite sex
who cannot read clocks,
• perseverence to smile when one's room has been
T.P.ed or had its complete stock of furniture stolen for
the eighth time,
• understanding of how to fix broken fingers . . . and
hearts,
• and the saintliness to sin less than the average stu-dent.
Resident assistants look well-adjusted on the outside,
but how do they feel on the inside?
Mostly happy. I get real joy from working with people. I
like being in a position where I have to really love someone
who may think differently than I think, or who may not
even like me.
I feel blessed in special moments: the Bible study with
much personal sharing, uplifting notes of thanks, and
secret presents.
I feel vulnerable, open to the hurts of others, hurts which
sometimes cut deeply into me. Sometimes I wonder if I am
emotionally capable of handling all of this.
I need courage:
• to confront a rebellious student,
• to search for the need behind the negative action,
• to love the unlovable,
• when I feel like running away.
I'm learning what servanthood is all about. Though I'm
not often good at sacrificing my will for others, for God —
I'm learning.
I am not alone. My team comforts and encourages me.
They understand my problems because they often feel like
I do. My friends give me a place of rest. They listen when
my heart needs to cry, and with sensitivity they renew me.
They help me laugh at my mistakes.
God softens my spirit, even if it is with tears and trials.
He builds me for his work and gives me His strength to:
• change fuses,
• smile at my empty room,
• enforce the rules,
• and love when I don't feel like it.
I am a resident assistant, a learning servant.
Linda Swift
•
The drowse from books and rebreathed air is dense
The stuffy sounds of shuffling soles on rugs,
Of exhaled prayers, of crackling pages turned,
Of monotone fans, bow careworn shoulders down.
My Brill° head sinks, bobs, then jerks awake.,.. ......
As gaping yawns stall notions close to sens .
- To sit, to think for hours with smells of ink
On pulpy pages processed cold, and the sh'
Of carrels varnished smooth and hard, is fals
Unnatural, obscene. Those birches, pines .„,
That fell and died for books were textures, roug'
Or waxed, not guised in gloss, retired on s
Without response to wind or rain or me.
Doug Barkey
Jolene Brask
Wayne Erickson
Steven Dennis
Edith Harvey
Edith Harvey
Third place visual arts competition.
Steven Dennis
Judy Hougen
When trees rage
With certain fire
And grasp
My summer mind
With their cool
Bronze fingers I
Think that only
You and the leaves
Could reach
Such beautiful
Majesty in such
Untimely Death
Jennifer Buechler
Water-Fall
Give of yourself.
Go lower, lower.,
As the river's only happiness
is found in going lower,
So is human happiness in
self-abasing love.
Be joyful as you give yourself.
Run sparkling in the sun,
Laughing and leaping over obstacles.
Pour yourself out,
Ever striving to attain
the ocean
of God's perfect Love.
Keren Allen
David Brown
Strolling down walkways,
variety shapes the stage.
In fashioned array,
smiles model the scene.
Packed beneath skin
lies an open heart.
Julie Redenbaugh
Amidst the bustling noise of shuffling feet and endless
chatter, my sharp ears capture squeaks of rolling wheelings
in the distance. Effortlessly, my spirits lift at the anticipation
of her arrival. Other noises grow dimmer as my ears auto-matically
capture the sound of squeaky wheels.
I realize, as I await her approach, how much I have come
to love the sound of rolling wheels — forever squeaking in a
quiet library or still chapel. When I hear it I know she's
near. Each time her hands grasp the cold metal, steering
her walker as she wills, my soul rejoices. And now, as the
squeak of turning wheels grows louder, my spirits rise once
again.
She endears herself to me as priceless JEWELS; the
bounds of my love seem to widen each day. I wait silently
as her wheels glide across the carpeted floor. Finally, I
glimpse her smile — a prized treasure. She now reaches
me; I grasp her hand. And, in that brief moment of eter-nity,
I realize the beauty of friendship and love.
Char Eklof
Doug Barkey
If I lock myself into my patchwork countryside world and
stitch the seams tight, I can bind off friendship. I can cut
you off.
I've watched myself walk briskly along the tunneled hall-ways
without giving you more than a glance. I've seen my-self
in your faces. If I look long at you, I see mirrors of my-self.
I touch myself in you and cannot turn away. I
remember who I am.
The winter eyes freeze. The needle pricks, a spot of red
appears, and then a scar. We pierce each other.
I have a piece to contribute to the fabric of life. The world
is textured and interwoven. If I pull out my strand from the
woof and warp, the design is incomplete. Then my handi-work,
as well as yours, will unravel.
I look to you. Become a part of me, mending the frag-mented
tapestry.
Barb Trostad
Doug Barkey
Jeanne Colehour
Jeanne Walton
Colleen R. Comeau
When I am alone
and emptied of all,
I am
merely
myself.
Me and myself —
we just sit there.
We know
who we
are,
really.
And that's what
hurts.
It's as if someone
is holding a book
right in front of my face
and turning the pages,
painfully slow.
There I am
on the pages
shown in stark
reality.
Holding groundless grudges
and pouting in self pity.
I am forced to recognize
who I am.
Alone
and in God's presence
I am bare
naked.
Stripped of my many
facades and disarmed of
my games.
Merry Olmstead
morning glories begin as seeds.
they do not always dance toward
the frosted early sun.
and their purple-pinks and yellow-blues
are often dirtied brown.
Plants.
they are only plants and green
until they blossom.
and then they are flowers —
dew-dropped rainbows,
glory of the morning.
Lisa Pepper
You turn the trees brown
and shake them so that
their leaves, those very
precious leaves,
fall to the ground. You strip
them of all their autumn
beauty
and leave them standing
bare.
They have nothing.
Except their roots which
cannot be seen. Then you
send winter to gnaw at even
the roots.
How long till my winter is over?
B. Genheimer
Doug Barkey Graydon Held Jr.
Debbie Bunger
The familiar sojourn into the bowels of the AC building is
strangely different in the subdued atmosphere of late eve-ning.
Doc's corner hums with coffeepots, but that warm in-vitation
is quenched in one quick maneuver around the
corner. In the blue-darkness, the impending corridor is
punctuated by a sole square of light issuing from the closed
door of AC 115.
There is a fascination about the slumbering scene of many
a triumph and fiasco: the labs of chemistry. A processional
of drooping lab coats slouches on a series of hooks, mute
witnesses to the disciples of the condensing tube who daily
shuffle to their appointed stations.
Here is a panorama of closed office doors. Tavernier,
Sackett, Stephens, Schmidt — men alternately viewed as
advisors, lunatics, comedians, and unbearable taskmas-ters.
Some bewildered soul is perpetually lurking around
these entranceways, "waiting to talk to/ask Dr.
" Varieties of monumental
problems are solved in these havens of clutter: behavior of
ideal gasses, the functioning of spec 20's, if life can be worth-while
without P-chem, "What happens if/when I don't get
into medical school?" Long after the chemistry major is be-decked
in the garb of a bachelor of arts, after he has forgot-ten
how to defend himself with a rinse bottle and cannot
draw the structure of a spingolipid despite any incentive to
do so, he may perchance still crack a smile when recalling a
certain ubiquitous green sweater, or a Sackett prayer break-fast.
The quant lab in the eerie light of its one window suddenly
murmurs with the whiz of countless magnetic stir bars!
From somewhere in the midst of a sea of analytical balances
and scrupulously clean flasks, the lone radio drones 1977's
recurring top ten hits. A sense of timelessness pervades the
lab — titration biurets drip rhythmically, solutions melt from
color to color, McDonald's rations come and go until the
janitors announce the closing of the building.
Organic Chemistry features elaborate contraptions,
multi-colored rubber gloves, and bulging round-bottomed
flasks, all to be manipulated with new-found dexterity. The
ever-present threat of explosion and sudden appearances of
billows of white smoke inflict drama into the seemingly un-exciting
memories of extracting, purifying, and crystallizing
oily liquids and putrid powders.
But onward to a land where air jets whistle, glassware
tinkles melodiously, and all sounds are party to the smug
emotion of new-found importance. General chem lab is ac-companied
by the rainbow hues of one's first real lab coat,
an entire inventory of assorted paraphernalia, and expo-sure
to that all-knowing upperclassman T.A. and cannot
help but flood even the grizzled soul with unwelcome nos-talgia.
The pains of countless experimental blunders have
disappeared, though, and all that remains of initiation into
science are the tenacious odors of dormant reagents in the
stock room.
The light of the "outside world" is again visible through a
twin set of double doors.
Jane Kochka
Give me joy or pain — this inbetween
is so mundane.
Let me cry like Hell burning
and eating my brains,
Or the laughter that my heart
is climbing some tall tree.
But I hate to be on the ground
looking up or looking down.
Mark Rentz
Doug Barkey
.!$ ,
t; !
At 2:00 in the morning, the lights in the Edgren can
seemed to buzz faintly. The mirrors were spotted, and the
sinks encrusted with a week's dirt and dried scum. Crude
initials and slogans scarred the enameled toilet stalls. Over it
all hung the nagging odor of sanitizing cleaner and urinal
cakes that couldn't completely hide the smell of stale urine.
I'd just gotten out of the shower and stood naked on the
cool floor in front of the sinks, a spectator, sensing my sur-roundings
and yet feeling strangely removed from them. I
looked at my image in the mirror. I was not impressed. It
*seemed ironic that people who knew me would see this face
in the hall and identify it as "Dan Miller."
"You are Dan Miller," I said. Sure enough, the face in the
mirror moved. It always did. Yet somehow it seemed
strange — saying "Dan Miller" seemed strange. It was like
saying a word over and over until it's robbed of all meaning
and remains only as a foreign-sounding garble of noise.
The lights buzzed. "Oh, shit." ;
It came out quite clearly and well enunciated, thou§h not
very loud. Releasing that disgust, rebellion, and resignation
felt good, even if I hadn't said it in a packed hallway, crowded
classroom, or murmuring library. But it sounded light-years
removed from "Dan Miller"; from 3.5 GPA's, Bible studies,
Bethel college, and friends who respected my "spiritual ma-turity."
I got dressed and started to walk out the door, but
stopped and slammed my fist against the wall. My knuckles
reddened, and they hurt, but it wasn't good enough. I
wanted to see blood on the smooth, cream-colored bricks. I
slammed it again. This time it hurt more, but still no blood.
"Oh, you're really dramatic!" I sneered at myself, "Now
you're supposed to keep slamming it until you get some
blood."
My hand still stung as I drove down a deserted country
road half an hour later. Throbbing music filled the car. I
floored the gas pedal and watched the needle rise. The dark
masses of trees on both sides of the road began to hurtle
past. The faster I went, the more furiously the pain, frustra-tion,
and bitterness boiled inside me. The shocks were bad,
and at this speed, every bump or pot hole made me bounce
and sway on the verge of losing control. Every muscle and
nerve in my hands and forearms was like a taut cord, tensely
vibrating. I'd seen photographs of car wrecks: masses of
metal crumpled and twisted around a tree, grisly hunks of
blackened meat that vaguely resembled human forms,
charred flesh that split open like an over-cooked hot dog.
Yet, I also realized with a serene sense of detachment that all
I had to do was let go of the wheel and my suffering would
soon be over.
I'd grown up in a good church. I had always been a (rea-sonably)
good kid. Everyone expected me to go far. What
had happened?
I came to Bethel hot on the trail of success. Here was my
chance for becoming a spiritual, intellectual, and emotional
giant. My freshman year was characterized .by academic
and spiritual zeal. My battle cry in the crusade for self-improvement
was, "I can, I will, and I'm going to!" This cru-sade
led me hundreds of miles from home that summer, to a
door-to-door book selling job. It was the ultimate symbol of
my transformation from awkward kid to mature man.
When I came home — with my tail between my legs and a
$190 debt around my neck — my confident battle cry had
abruptly changed to a despairing, "I can't, I won't, and I
never will."
This new world was unfair and unbearable. To defend my-self,
I accepted the whispered invitation to ignore this world
and "slip into something more comfortable." Time that had
previously been spent in necessities like study and sleep was
spent in fantasizing and day-dreaming. I did what I wanted,
made up my own rules, and said "To hell with the conse-quences."
The consequences, however, were not listening. Neg-lected
obligations and responsibilities began to crush me.
Soon, my traditional "I don't care anyway," sounded hollow
even to me. I did care about my lack of integrity and dili-gence,
but it seemed too late to do anything about it. My last
support was kicked out from under me. Once more, every-thing
I did and said came back to me, bearing a damning
prophesy: "You can't, you won't and you never will."
All this came back to me in the car, like a hellish 8-track
playing over and over, with devastating accusations and
taunts burned into each track. I couldn't turn it off. I was on
the verge of desperately silencing it altogether when a clear,
distinct thought came to me: "Now. Stop now or it will be
too late."
Suddenly, like the breaking of a fever, I took my foot off
the pedal and the whole world slowed down. When faced
with the realities of life I could easily sink into the comforting
arms of fantasy, but when I peered gingerly over the edge of
the pit, my intentions of jumping disappeared. It was too per-manent.
It didn't seem nearly as attractive a solution once I
got right up next to it.
I had known hope once before. Maybe I could find a scrap
of it again. I turned down the radio and headed home with a
headache and a mouth like cotton. The long days of mount-ing
hopelessness and self-hate had left me exhausted. The
numbness hadn't gone, and neither had the oppressive
problems; yet, I at least had a weary, hesitant, "Perhaps."
Daniel Miller
First place literary competition.
Doug Barkey
First place visual arts competition.
See
Zeke's Zetesis
Page 3
I walked downstairs, past the P.O. boxes and through the door to the boiler room. Passing through another door, I wandered
the large room until I came to a door with a sign that read "Clarion." I don't remember if it also said "Welcome, come on in," or
"Enter at Your Own Risk." I knocked timidly on the door.
A smiling and seemingly friendly journalist opened the door. I swallowed. "Hi, I'd like to write for the paper. I'm a freshman,
but I had some experience in journalism in high school ..."
"Come on in. I'm sure we've got a story you can work on," he said, still smiling.
Since that fateful day,. I have been writing for the Clarion almost every week. But instead of hiding out in the boiler room, I
now play the role of an editor and work in the "celestial heights" of the fourth floor, right next to the dean's office.
Some things remain the same. I still have to muster up some courage when I interview people like the dean or the president,
and I still rack my brains on Sunday afternoon to put words on paper for an article due that evening.
But my responsibilities have changed since I was a reporter. Now I am the editor that writers come to for help, when I can
offer it. I am the one writing notes, stopping people in the hall, or calling them on the phone, pleadirig with them to write stories
for the paper.
Being an editor, and not necessarily "the Editor," is also frustrating. It means listening to excuses every week for why a story
didn't work. "The lady never answered her phone," or "I had two exams and a big paper to do, so I couldn't find time to do the
story," or "But his secretary told me that the dean is out of town for two weeks!"
I have had to crawl out of bed at midnight when the editor knocks on my door to ask where stories for the printer are. My
hands get dirty from printer's ink every Friday while stuffing P.O. boxes for up to an hour. At our weekly production night
meetings I listen to frustrating monologues among staff members.
"Well, the copy won't be back from the printer for another hour," says one.
"Can I leave now? We've done all our work," says another at 9:30, when I know I'll be in the office for another three hours.
"I can't believe it! It's 10:00 PM and we don't have any pictures yet!"
In spite of these frustrations, though, the work is always rewarding; there's the finished product every Friday — a tangible re-sult
of our labors.
I meet a variety of people: presidents, professors, and other writers. Becoming close to them and with other members of the
staff is probably the best part of the job.
These friendships will probably last even longer than the yellowing Clarions from my freshman year.
Suzi Wells
-5,
Nobody understands why I'm having a rough time; they just don't see where I'm coming from. Or maybe I should say they
don't see where I'm going. They all know I come from a "good Christian home." I have good parents — my dad is an elder in the
church and my mom is active in the ladies' group. We have gone to church together ever since I can remember. We have our
family arguments and an unwritten "list of topics to be avoided at the dinner table," but we're still pretty close-knit.
I have been raised to believe that God is always there and sure, I can depend on him. But it's not that easy. I get dragged
down and out and have a hard time breathing again. A person can only hang on for so long before letting go.
Around three years ago my dad and mom decided that they wanted to re-establish their own business. They had started it
once before but had left it lay dormant when an extraordinary job opportunity came along that couldn't be turned down. So
they started down the road of reinstatement.
We had people all over the world praying for us — we had to be sure we were making the right decision. It would mean leav-ing
the secure job that had seemed so right just a few short years ago to venture into something totally unpredictable.
Whatever decision was made, it had to be the right one. "The doors keep opening and things are falling into place, Lord. We
know this has to be because of your direction," we said with every prayer.
And I sat in the middle of all these decisions — feeling like my once secure world was ready to topple down on me.
Doors did keep opening and we stepped out on a limb. Then snap, crackle, slam! The limb broke. The door slammed in our
faces. And did it hurt. When the Lord closes a door, he usually stands behind it and won't budge until He is ready to.
So we waited. The family discussions got longer and longer until finally no one had any more to say. Not one of us could see a
solution in sight. So we waited.
Once again the doors started opening and we walked through only to find ourselves face to face with a stone brick wall. We
prayed. I prayed. I prayed every time the word "business" was mentioned. I wrote notes to remind myself to keep sending God
messages. If nothing else, I asked, just give us — me — strength. I was finding that those things I had learned all my life in Sun-day
School could have more meaning than just words written in a Sunday School teacher's manual.
"Where are you God? We know you are listening," we kept repeating to ourselves. My dad was lost and couldn't lead. My
mom was following and couldn't direct, and my sister and I were tagging along. No other doors opened. "If we're not supposed
to have this business, what do we do?" Nothing showed. No money, no patience, no respect, but still holding out on faith.
My life had changed. My security had been shaken, my world torn apart, I was growing, and the growing pains hurt. But I'm
still here.
Maybe there is an answer somewhere that we can't see. I could be totally blind and ignorant. I'm just barely hanging on; I'm
only human. I know, I know, faith is believing that the only strength I have is from God and from living in accord with that belief.
But I'm still staring at the ceiling. It has been a long time since this whole mess got started. God, it's hard! My family is hurting.
My dad is aching; he's never been so low. He doesn't know how to help his family anymore, but he hangs on. I know it will end.
Lord, we're really lost and we're fighting to keep on. I've been trying to put two and two together and get the proverbial four,
but it just isn't easy. I know there is an answer, but what's taking you so long God?
Joy Nannette Banta
Pam Sprecher
Doug Barkey
There is no victory without defeat, no white without
black, no good without bad. Each makes the other dis-tinct.
Worthy achievements do deserve recognition, but
success without failure would not stand out as
extraordinary.
One task that vividly points out society's discrimination
against failure,is that of compiling a job resume. It is humili-ating
to confine the most significant experiences of a life to
one side of a white typing paper.
"What're ya doing?"
"Typing up a resume. I'm applying for a job at a bank."
"Hm . . . Little League mascot, perfect Sunday School
attendance . . . You're really putting down everything.
Wait a minute. Assistant coach of your intra-mural broom-ball
team? What's that got to do with banking?"
"Shows leadership qualities."
"R.A. of the Edgren Pit?"
"Ability to cope with deprived and stressful conditions."
This obnoxious list of titles, awards, and achievements —
real and imagined — is supposed to prove that one is
qualified for a job.
But where is there room for the times you tried your
hardest, but didn't quite make it, for the honest failures
that lie silent between the contrived glories of a resume, for
the everyday failures that have been more valuable than a
few pronounced successes? A sample of typical failures
gleaned from a four-year relay:
In ceramics class I produce nothing more than a five-pound
paperweight and a lopsided flower vase . . . yet
understand artists better afterwards.
After running track all spring I sprain an ankle the day
before Nationals and have to cheer from the stands, finally
understanding what good sportsmanship and patience are
all about.
I apply to med school — eight of them — and wait for
eight letters, each saying "No." Friends are accepted, but
their relieved happiness is clouded by my disappointment. I
learn the value of friends.
I drop out of school for two years, am mad at every-body,
bum around the country. At the end of my rope, I
realize that God is near. I come back to school knowing
who I am and what I want.
I transfer, switch majors, write special programs, petition
via green, yellow, and blue petitions, talk my way in and out
of classes, across divisions in the registration catalogue .. .
but graduate, if in five years.
Failures happen, and in the process of exhuming —
digging up — a buried and universal part of human
existence, Bethel has encouraged me to attempt, to risk.
My attempts didn't need to end exactly as they were
planned, because I was pointed to a God Who accepts me
in both success and failure.
God is a Scavenger, a Specialist in redeeming failures.
His friends — janitors, R.A.'s, students, teachers who
recognized my unconditional value — have confidence not
in success, but in One Who considers our helplessness His,
greatest asset.
Holly Schmiess
Doug Barkey
"If life is a bowl of cherries, why am I in the pits?"
Like any normal college student, I have asked myself this
question hundreds of times. College life, for me, has been a
succession of bouts of depression, overwork, loneliness,
fear, and — sometimes — temporary insanity. During my
four years at this institution, I have often wondered what
"having fun" really meant.
I never seemed to have luck with anything, especially
housing. One year three of us had to share a dorm room. It
was so crowded, we had to use our desk drawers for our
clothes.
There was a conspiracy against me in the dorm kitchen.
Every time I went to cook there were no dishes — clean or
otherwise. Once the stove burned out. Another time some-one
thoughtfully removed my cake from the oven before it
was done. And nothing frustrated me more than sharing
my food with a mysterious refrigerator bug.
Added to the above list of inconveniences were raids, fire
drills, clogged shower drains, late or missed busses,. cold
rooms and overheated rooms.
But there were dorm parties, birthday parties with cake
and ice cream, friends with expensive stereos, and the lat-est
albums to go with it, busy phones, popcorn, peanut
butter, TV shows, laughter .. .
On the academic side, there was always too much home-work
over the weekend. All my tests and papers fell on the
same day or week. And because of the heavy load, I had
problems staying awake, even during exams. My faith in my
once perfect memory declined rapidly as more than one
person began calling me "Space Cadet."
Even then, I had a wavering premonition that someday I
would graduate, older and wiser, with a B.A. And some-how,
after receiving a good grade, all my hard work
seemed worth it.
Alas, the simple pleasures of life eluded me and every-thing
seemed like a major obstacle: an empty P.O., junk
mail, no coffee at Doc's corner. Finals and mid-terms
always found me brooding about the purpose of my strug-gles.
"All is vanity" was my favorite phrase during those
days of trial and decaffination.
But despite all the advice I had received about procras-tination,
my best papers were the ones I wrote and typed
the night before the due date. And then, I finally managed
to learn how to tell the difference between a "cash line"
and a "charge line" at the bookstore.
Whenever the pressure became unbearable, it seemed
logical to renounce my books.
But God showed me that you can't have a cherry blos-som
without a cherry pit.
Thangi Chhangte
Ode to a Willow
Walking across the snow-covered lake, I crunched my
feet in the crisp snow. With my chin pressed tightly against
my chest, I watched my feet, not looking where I walked. I
stopped and listened as the wind chased the snow over the
lake, forming a considerable mound of snow against the hill
which stood just beyond the lake's edge. On the other side
of the mound I saw a familiar tree stump and began walk-ing
towards it. In recent days I had spent many hours upon
that particular stump, wondering if I would ever be freed
from suffering and sorrow.
I sat down and with my hands held over my face, tried to
pray.
I had only closed my eyes for a few moments when I
noticed the wind had stopped. I no longer felt snow blow-ing
against my hands and face. Opening my eyes, I found
myself alone, seemingly lost in a world of total darkness. I
slowly stood up, but when I felt around for the stump, it
was gone. My eyes began adjusting somewhat to the dark-ness.
And in the distance I thought I could see something. I
cautiously took my first step, reaching out with my toe to
feel the ground ahead of me.
I walked for a long time, and soon I began to observe the
object taking shape on the horizon. Tall and slender, it
glowed, but that didn't seem likely in such a cold, dark
world; yet, magically, it did seem to be casting light into the
empty darkness.
As I drew near, I stopped. I could finally tell what had
attracted me from so far. It was a tree, perhaps an old oak
tree, but so unlike any I had ever seen before. It was a mag-nificent
tree, beautiful with brightness, full of life. It reached
into and scattered the darkness, spreading warmth all
around it. Its branches glittered and sent bright light to the
sky. Its trunk was sturdy and stood boldly, defying the
black void. Although from a distance its radiant glow had
suggested chilling cold, standing next to the tree I felt de-lightfully
warm. The dampness had left and I was filled with
warmth.
On one side of the tree, carved into the trunk, I noticed
an inscription. I looked closer. There were three words
written in the side, almost as if they had been there for
many years. Slowly, I read the words. I read them again. As
I did, I felt something changing inside me. I felt strangely
new, as if some mysterious force had been swept into my
body.
I wanted to touch the tree. But as I held out my hand
toward it, I saw the branch of a tree where my hand had
been. I quickly glanced down at my feet, and instead I saw
the trunk of a tree.
I looked at the tree beside me and without having to
think, I knew what had happened. Somehow, I had be-come
a tree. Much smaller than the other, I was not nearly
as strong nor as perfect, but I was indeed a tree.
I looked again at the words I had read. They said, "Tree
of Life."
I left the nursery yesterday. There were too many trees
there, and our branches kept getting tangled together. Our
roots were cluttered with litter, forcing many of us to rot
away. Old Zeb, an ancient willow, had often told a story
about a nursery of long ago that had been destroyed, over-come
by those who didn't care.
When I left, I realized how fast our nursery had grown.
Looking back at it from a distance, I saw that we had be-come
quite numerous. I had never thought that we could
have grown so much in so short a time.
Always, above all the young trees, growing bigger and
stronger, stood the Old Oak. His beauty still outshone the
others. And yet, he seemed much more beautiful now,
standing there above the younger trees, no longer all alone.
He seemed brighter, stronger, bolder.
After having been in the nursery so long, getting tangled
and cluttered, it's good to be away. And now, when the
wind blows, I will bend with it, unafraid. And I will provide
light to those wandering past, lost or alone like I was once.
G. W. Smith
To carve out my life on this oak wood world
gives me blistered hands and tired wrists.
So I pray for the callouses and pull out the splinters
and hope that the rain won't warp the wood.
Simply touch me Father
so that I'll know I'm forgiven.
Lead me to the places where
I'll meet more of you.
And in the hollow days
when morning is mourning my earthly shell,
Caress me — That I'll know I'm not forgotten.
Scott Barnard
Second place literary competition.
I felt called to Bethel. "God said . . . 'Arise, go up to Bethel
and dwell there . . .'" I still think I belong here. And yet .. .
Some days — or weeks — I am on a seesaw. Monday I am a
bore. I sleep through every class and mumble monosyllabic
answers to How was your weekend?, the Bethel conversa-tion
starter. Tuesday isn't much better. I get my two classes
over with as fast as I can and go back to Hagstrom on the 2
o'clock bus. I hog a seat to myself for as long as I can, then
give it up, reluctantly, to a stranger I won't talk to. Wednes-day
I am High-Per!!! Everything happensalong a parachute-string
attachedonlytoann and she LIVES instead'o
s ur vives and ann knows beyond the shadow of a doubt (!!!)
that she is unique and that it is ok to be different because
"different" isn't plastic and "plastic" is dead and why not
LIVE as long as you're still emitting brain waves? — besides,
it's lonely listening to the sound of your own breathing
against an iron shell you've built around yourself . . . On
Thursday I blow up. Emotionally, spiritually, physically, et
cetera. I come apart. I'm no good in school anyhow, I tell my
hysterical self, so why do I try, why am I here — paying all
this money to be miserable — for something I don't even
care about?!? Except . . . well, ok. I care. Respectable
grades make it all seem worthwhile . . . and I want a Chris-tian
Community where I can learn Christian values and
Christian answers to all my non-Christian questions. Still, I
don't want to lose my identity, so to prove to me that "me"
exists, I daydream through my last class, then pig-out on lots
of fattening foods before taking a long walk to Como Lake
where I watch old men in blue sweat suits and little old ladies
in knee-length moo-moos toddle along the sidewalk dodg-ing
kids on 10-speed bikes. I watch the ducks make waves. I
try to recapture Life's Meaning. Friday: (1) Get up (2) Take
the bus to school (3) Go to chapel (4) Go to class (5) Eat
lunch (6) Fool around in the library instead of getting down
to studying so I don't have as much to do over the weekend
(7) Go to class (8) Take the bus back to the dorm . . . Every
friday I have my little routine. It's a rut. It isn't particularly
Fun or even Satisfying. Mom always drops by after work to
bring me home. Ah, the Bethel Dream: Going Home for The
Weekend. Who said you can never really go home again? He
was right. The first time I went "back" my cat snubbed me.
It was quite a blow . . . And, oh yes! Mom missed me. But I
feel like a stranger now, a house guest. So, what's my Point,
my Thesis? I am one of several hundred students at Bethel
College. God brought me here. God will keep me here —
teaching me and giving me room to grow. I have gone up to
Bethel and, for this year at least, here I will dwell.
Cathy Yeo
A. Taylor
Third place literary competition.
A
is
Graydon Held Jr.
The Boy
I am the boy —
A pollywog in stages.
A blade of grass
I cannot pass
Or return
For I have picked it.
I am the youth —
With why?
And still I do not know
The reason
Why I
Must leave my pond.
Mark Rentz
We see each other when we aren't
looking, talk about things unimportant be-cause
silence seems awkward. First meet-ings
start chapters.
We are labeled inseparable.
Though still toying with those who will flirt
with us, we feel deeply in a way that rules
out others.
"I love you."
We live for — we think — forever.
Winter is the spoiler of a pleasant
fall; something changes. All I know for
sure is that you are slipping away. I try to
keep you to myself, but fail. I cry alone,
remembering the times we could cry
together.
I am told about a "new person in
my life." You are with someone else when
once you had been with me.
I lie. I say I have "someone new"
too.
Insides are torn apart.
"Everything will work out."
"Time and distance mend torn
feelings."
But you are in my thoughts
constantly; I can't get away.
Steve Hoswell
Allen R. Kje shn
David Melander
ANN •
MI
Mlin • 14111b
Doug Barkey
The bus was stuffed with bodies to the ears,
Some twos, some threes, but I the only one.
Some music played but no one stopped to listen;
Some rain came down but no one missed the sun.
Half-tempted to remove my blasphemous shoes,
I turned to see if others shared my plight.
Untouched, they rattled on in blindness
As we plunged into everlasting night.
And then we passed a row of burning bushes,
Each one ablaze with nonconsuming flame.
Their shook-foil shining shed a light fantastic.
I waited for a voice to speak my name.
The world sped by, an unexamined movie;
Like unheard falling trees it made no sight.
Inside the conversation came and went:
Mike Angelo and what to do tonight.
Dave Healy
•
t-,101101
■■••.
ARR.- -400
/•••■••■\
s*11181r0*/
With strategy I entered
and covered up my heart
to open might mean peril
to share could cause depart
frightened by her openness
yet fragile in its reach .. .
by hiding we go nowhere
by touching we meet.
Bruce R. Johnson
Second place passages arts competition.
Bruce R. Johnson
0,11,11111,a,..
' • ,
Adulthood. The prime of life.
That's when it all happens. That's when things get done.
That's when life really moves.
Does it ever.
On the collegiate scale it's the junior year, stage three in
the four-part series.
Juniors, unlike their second-year brethren, have gotten it
all together. They've grown out of that awkward gangly
stage. They can walk without stumbling and talk without
their voices cracking.
They've finally taken their minds off themselves and put
them on their activities. Ah, those activities.
The normal junior is immersed in business. If an epi-demic
hit the junior class the entire school would be liable
to stop functioning. Nothing would be left but mere classes.
Juniors put the extra in extra-curricular activities.
You can spot a junior by the warm path on the carpet
after he has blazed down the hall. And if you sit still you
might see the same one coming back by — if you don't
blink.
And you'll never catch juniors at home. They only go
there to sleep, if they have time.
To elaborate on the subject, I asked several juniors to
explain how they kept up the pace.
They didn't have time to answer.
Aren't old folks the best?
To think that we endow them with such labels as fogies,
fossils, artifacts, corpses and senior citizens. We call them
such things collectively.
But doesn't every kid love his grandparents? And aren't
they the ones who appreciate life the most? You bet they
are. They're through with the responsibilities of life. Now
they sit down and enjoy.
That's all. They just enjoy.
A lot like kids, aren't they? Sure, the good old "second
childhood." They treasure the simple things again.
Of course, you know I'm describing seniors.
Senior citizens, senior collegians, they're the ones.
They're the people who have really been through it all.
They've paid their time. They've earned the chance to take
it a little easier. Right?
By now they look back at it all and, seeing what they've
done, can enjoy life again. They value the small things.
They laugh at life again.
In fact, they laugh as much as discuss, enjoy as much as
analyze, play as much as work.
They're a little scared, too. They're not exactly sure
what is coming next.
But they can take life at face value again. They appre-ciate
God's gifts again.
In essence, seniors have a lot in common with freshmen,
older folks with children.
So we've come full circle. We're on the good side again.
And we can't go back. We can't convince the others that
it's true. They'll have to go through it themselves, one way
or another. They may not all go through it as fast, or in the
same sequence, but hopefully they'll get through it.
At least that's the way I see it. But then, perhaps this
poem would be a fitting summary.
I wonder oft of what life's made
And what to live we should know,
Or how about it we should go.
It's such a hazy escapade.
In poems there are many words.
Philosophizing's for the birds.
Cathy Yeo
Chuck Mick
David Shelley
I sank into the overstuffed chair at
Doc's corner and put my mug of coffee to
my lips. It was hot enough to warm my
insides, but not hot enough to burn my
tongue. As I crunched my cookies and
sipped my coffee, I watched people come
and go, pouring cups of coffee, hesitating
over the cookie cans. Groups of people
sat scattered around on the couches and
chairs, quietly conversing. Beside a foun-tain
of bright flowers, a girl sat with her
legs tucked up under her, underlining in
the book on her lap. The warm aroma of
coffee and cookies filled the air, Mingling
pleasantly with muted voices and lamp-light.
Somehow a piece of home got trans-planted
to Bethel's lower halls; security
and a spirit of love are the warmest things
there.
Keren Allen
yy
we are
in the midst of our planet's fragmentation
yet there is a unity
and though our souls it 4
have tasted Cain's rebellion
yet there is Abel leading us back to the altar
and even if you are here
and i am there
yet we are linked .. .
beyond the earthquake
there are atoms joined together
beyond the fault lines
there is love
and what is there to fear
when God is here?
At last, to be identified!
At last, the lamps upon thy side
The rest of Life to see!
Past Midnight! Past the Morning Star!
Past Sunrise!
Ah, What leagues there were
Between our feet, and Day!
Emily Dickinson
Ar dr Ara" 41r . Ay,
Air.e.rAr.avAAw_err/41'ff 1"414rA;d:./4tar
ar 41 If Ilk AM
. .
' • • ;.4 AY;••. "''
. . •
• - wt,: tuffkl: -